


A Better Way

by autumnpavements



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnpavements/pseuds/autumnpavements
Summary: The Hound cannot leave the Little Bird and he does not know why. The Little Bird cannot survive without him.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. The White Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> In this story the Hound is a bit younger and the Little Bird is a bit older. There is still an age gap, but Sansa is eighteen and the difference in years is acceptable within the Westoros setting. 
> 
> I read the books three years ago now, so I apologise for any small mistakes and inconsistencies with George R.R. Martin's world.

It had been three days since Sandor Clegane - The Hound, as he was better known - had (by rights) gained his "home" back. Three days since he was sent to the throneroom to find _Lord_ Tywin Lannister, his whore daughter _Queen_ Cersei and His little fucking _Grace,_ Joffree. Clegance snorted but they assumed it was just part of his countenance, because it was. 

Tywin looked nonchalanced as he reported the death of Sandor's only brother. Gregor has been tall as a mountain and built like an ox but, nvertheless, he happened to die like any other man. Sandor was just disappointed that he's missed it. 

No, not disappointed - but devastated. _Since I was a greenboy my wetdreams have consisted of nothing but flaying my beloved brother alive, just like those Boltons do in the North. And the occasional redhead, but she was a rather late occurence._

Just for Gregor to catch a disease from some Westerland whore. If the Hound could resurrect his brother only to give him a much slower, more painful death full of flames and scarlet, he most definately would. 

The news that he was now the Lord of Clegane Keep inspired little emotion in the dog compared with the fury and desolation that already resided inside of him. 

"As you never... managed to take your vows as a knight of the Kingsguard, it seems that there is nothing short of stopping you walking out of this room right now and going _home_ ," Lord Tywin continued, not even pretending to suppress a laugh at the latter word. _Home._ The man knew the state the dog was in when he showed up at the gates of Casterly Rock with nothing but a sword and a horse; knew that what he was running from was by no means a home. Of course, the dog was but a pup back then, but he never once held himself as such. Tywin could easily laugh at the memory. 

Yet, the petulent child king did not understand the joke, it seemed. 

"What do you mean, Lord Grandfather? My dog cannot just _leave_! Who will I have to protect me? What if Stannis comes? What if there's a mob again? _What if I get bored?_ " Joffree whined, his voice rising to a shriek when no one answered him. 

"Hush now, my darling," Cersei intervened from under her flagon of wine, "I know how you are awfully fond of your Hound, but we will find you a new one - a better one - if Clegane chooses to go." She eyed him like she was waiting for the betrayal. 

The dog always knew that he was just a toy to them. A pawn, just like Baelish or Varys. Just with a lot less coin than one and a little more cock than the other. Even so, Clegane would choose being a pawn over being dead in a heartbeat. 

"The only man who is better than my dog is now _dead,_ mother," the little shit pouted. 

Silence prevailed. They were all clearly waiting for Sandor to say something about the matter.

He decided on, "I'll stay 'till Stannis."

This seemed to satisfy their highborn minds, ensuring them that their _cherished_ dog's strength and brutality would be on their side and giving them time to find some other fucker stupid enough to take up the role. 

***

After Sandor was dismissed, that's when he felt his rage truly rush upon him, as he headed deftly to the castle's training yard. 

_The only thing I ever had a chance to be in life, taken right from under me. To be a kinslayer._ The only thing he ever wanted. _Well, not the only thing - but the only moderately accessible thing all the same,_ he thought as a caught a flash of scarlet hair dancing in his peripheral. It was her, across the fountains, he saw. She must have been heading to the God's wood. 

_Pious little bird. Pray for my brother, will you? While you're at it I mean?_ He let himself internally chuckle before his mood suddenly darkened. The image of his Little Bird kneeling for his brother's _soul_ brought a new wave of anger over him, of her mouth making out his name. His cynical grimace deepened as he reasoned that the girl must have so many to pray for already. Her headless father's ticket to the heavens, the bloody _King in the North,_ her mother, sister disappeared and an infant brother, another crippled brother and a dead direwolf...

The only way he could mentally deal with the weight of _that_ thought was to make haste towards the yard, start up a nice sweat and put every man there on their backs in the mud. 

***

Day moulded like clay into weeks and weeks into months, but the monotony of Sansa's everyday was nothing to the girl's all-encompassing grief. One never knows of true heartbreak until the Stranger comes to take away all. _I shouldn't think like that,_ she chastised herself on her worse days, _all I have to do is endure their beatings and embarassment, I should be grateful for them because they show that Robb's winning and the Lannisters don't know what to do about it._

Despite the lions' and the snakes' greatest efforts to kill her light and suffocate her soul, hope was still present. In the form of Sir Dontos. Yes, he was silly and drank too much and gave her sloppy kisses, calling them both Florian and Jonquil. But Sansa knew that she couldn't possibly refuse her only opportunity of esacpe from this evil den. She needed to get out, and if that meant enduring a few wet kisses, she would do what she had to. Besides, it all seemed so trivial compared to what she imagined her siblings and her mother to be braving, what her father went through. 

_Still, it turns my stomach so._ She felt so guilty as the unadulterated thought prevailed her. Dontos was kind to her, but she nonetheless could not help but to sense that he did not expect his help was for nothing. 

_I need to get out no matter the cost._

So as she met him in the Godswood, a place that nobody in King's Landing but her cared to visit, Sansa made it her duty not to displease, as always. 

However, outside of the woods, the girl seemed to be doing nothing but displeasing. It was true that much of His Grace's frustration surrounding the upcoming war with Lord Stannis was being directed unto her. The worst by far was unquestionably her shameful stripping and beating at court. Sansa could not remember feeling anything but a hard thumping in her heart, a harsh ringing in her ears and sadistic blue eyes paired with pink, wormy lips as she was stripped from shoulder to waist as the hilt of Sir Meryn's blade excitedly swiped down upon her. That was until the doors were slammed open by Lord Tyrion, and quickly blue eyes turned to a wrathful grey, the kind she felt uncomfortable just to look upon. Yet, in this moment, the change of scenery was so welcome, as Sandor Clegane stepped forward almost silently and draped his off-white cape over her quivering shoulders. 

_His cloak_ \- Sansa would have to give it back, but - in truth - she had been putting it off. He was so frightening and his cruel eyes scared her more than any blade of Sir Meryn's could. But that cloak, no longer white but instead almost sooty with the stains of battle. It was too puzzling to return easily. The wearer was no true White-cloak, refusing to take his vows and continuously reminding her that knights were not to be trusted or romanticised in any way. He didn't even seem to have any love for the king or the throne. But he still wore that baffling cloak - Why? She pondered this when she required something to think about which was not wolves and winter or beatings and bruises. Surely he could have simply rode out of those cursed gates the moment they started treating him like a dog?

 _Maybe he enjoys it, being told to do a bad thing and carrying it out the obligation without question. Like he did with Ayra's friend._ This scared her down to her bones as a second thought teetered on the edge of her focus, just whispering against the walls of her mind: _If they order him to beat me, he will like it. And he will hurt me worse than any Blount or Trant could ever dream of._

She let Ser Dontos' kisses slop against her face until parting with him to head back to her room. 

***

He was sweating profusely and his bare torso was covered with flakes of mud and a spraying of blood, flown up when his strikes were enough to shed ruby and knock his opponents on their arses. 

This was the only thing he truly loved; the only thing the Hound truly relished in. Because he was doing what was expected of him. 

Killing, yes. Raping, whoring, drinking, pillaging, yes. He might have done none of these things in another world but would regardless be believed to have done anyway. Because he was a big man, an ugly and brash beast with a brother as villainous as Gregor. These were the things big men did, and the things little men did when they had big men on their sides did too. 

When the other men started heading to the maester or to start their shifts or to a whorehouse, the Hound went to bathe before he was due to guard the king. Heading back to his modest room in the King's Guard's quarters, he roughly ordered a frightened young servant to fill a tub quickly. He waited in the simple and unadorned room as the maid threw buckets of hot water in the tub as quickly as she possibly could without spilling too much over the sides, avoiding his eyes expertly. 

He didn't fail to notice her light hair and heavy chest, her being short but filled out. He tossed the wench a few coppers as she went to leave, if only for the view as she bent over the bath to test the water. 

Baring the door behind her, Clegane made quick work of shucking off his stained and stinking clothes, stepping into the steaming water. 

_Don't they make these fucking things any bigger,_ he thought as his knees were trapped up near his chest. His legs spread as far as the tub would allow and he rested the back of his dark head on the rim. Closing his eyes, he thought about his brother for a long minute, until his mind wandered to snowy skin and hair like fire.

 _She's been heading to that fucking Godswood an awful lot_ , he thought suspiciously, and noted that she was there even earlier than her maids would be knocking on her door to scrub her pink and place her in her stockings. _She was earnest today,_ he pictured her skirts flourishing around her along with her determined steps and his eyebrows furrowed. 

_Might be that she's just in a pious mood, moreso than usual, it seems. She might have had a nightmare and wanted to pray it away. That was what women did with their problems, wasn't it?_ He reasoned uncertainly. 

The Hound's face softened and an uncensored image of his Little Bird in her soft, ivory silks, fast asleep with the rose of her cheeks matching her lips and her eyelashes casting long shadows against her fair face. _I could chase away a bad dream faster than any praying ever could, Little Bird._

He felt himself harden around the sullied water and didn't wait to grip himself in a firm hold. Sandor's eyebrows creased together further as he followed the length of himself, root to tip and back again. All the while, he imagined soft, pale hands against his rough and calloused ones, guiding him. Red hair brushing gently over his chest and a shimmering smile, aimed just for him. The latter he had to half create from scratch in his mind; the man had never witnessed a true smile on Sansa Stark since she'd arrived at King's Landing. 

As he pumped his ever-growing shaft into his grasping fingers and simultaneously squeezed his eyes shut, it was all rolling water and short gasps of air. Until it was just one sputtered, animal sound, a whispering loop of "Little Bird"s and fast white liquid over his abdomen as he gripped the sides of the bath. 

The Hound's breathing slowly calming after his release, one single thought crossed his mind and refused to budge: _you stupid dog, you are nothing more than another part of her nightmare._

He was left to quickly clean himself and dress for his shift in a self-depracating melancholy, feeling more like a dog than ever. 

*** 

Sansa was on her way to the royal gardens on a late summer day. It was boiling outside and she was pondering on what in Westeros possesed her to wear a dress as warm as the one she had on, when she spotted the Hound marching down the hallway infront of her. He looked huge and fearsome in his armour plates, but there was no sign of a white cloak on his broad back. 

The cloak had been sitting in her chest, becoming harder and harder to hide from the maids. _He likely thinks my not returning it a slant to his person. I haven't even thanked him for that day!_

Panicking internally but trying hard to ignore this sudden apprehension, she quickened her pace delicately to catch him up. 

_Gods! How can he be so fast with all that steel over him?_

When Sansa got close enough, she shyly raised her hand to tap his shoulder, but he had clearly already caught note of her presence because, before she had time to snatch her hand back, he spun and grabbed her in a death grip. His hateful eyes softened slightly when he caught hers but quickly hardened again when he realised she was wandering around the castle without a maid _again._ His grip remained, as if his hold was less than conscious. 

"Little Bird's taken to following a dog around, has she? You must be bored in your gilded cage, _my lady_ ," he sneered down at her in the empty hall. 

He was too close to her, making her feel too hot and aggressively watched, "Not at all, Ser, I swear it! I only wanted to - Oh! Stop it. Please, you're hurting me..."

The man glanced down at his hands around the girl's small wrists, pausing momentarily until he slowly loosened his grasp on her skin. The Hound never widened the distance between the two of them though, never stepped away from her. His looming presence made her feel unhinged. 

She caught her breath and forced herself to continue, all the while trying to keep contact with his malicious eyes. She was aware that his unexplained hate for her would bubble over if she didn't look at him bravely. _No one else looks him in the eye, what should make me any different?_

"I-wanted to thank you, Ser," she knew she had said the wrong thing as soon as the words left her, because his mouth drew a sneer and his grey eyes went like coal. 

"I'm no Ser. And I'm not to be thanked like one of your greenboy knights, girl. Fuck your pleasantries. If you want to thank me you'll do it properly," he rasped, backing her into a corner. 

She knew he was just trying to intimidate her in his most menacing way. _Why must I always be the one to retreat with these people?_

When Sansa Stark was unsure or scared or uncomfortable, she fell back dependably on her courtesies, and this was what she did in this moment. It was just a shame that the Hound was seemingly the only person in Westoros to be unmoved by her politeness. 

"I apologise to be of offense to you... Clegane." She said his name as softly as an unsure question, "I-I do hope you don't find too much trouble in my calling you by your family name. You were presumably born with it, afterall, so maybe that is better comfortable for you?" She added, a small bravery to oppose him even in the slightest way. It was easier disguised as polite innocence. 

The Hound was not fooled. The Little Bird was utterly dwarfed by his shadow now, and she was backed into a corner. The marled stone wall scratched unbearably against her back and snagged her hair from its insufferable southern updo. _I utterly despise my hair like this anyway, but Joffree will find offense in my unkempt._

And the Hound was so terribly close . She didn't know how much longer she could stomach his unrelenting gaze and continue looking in return.

 _"Comfortable?"_ he made a short barking sound which she realised was humour. _Gods, he even laughs like a beast._ It sounded like he wasn't quite used to laughing outwardly. "Little Bird, my surname is the most uncomfortable thing about me." 

This drew her mind to a story she was told what seemed like a long time ago, one that Peter Baelish had told her about a young boy and a toy knight and so much fire. The girl looked at her trangressor in this moment, looked at him fully - scars and twitching mouth, hair raven black and trying to cover as much of his defect as it could. But it was the eyes that always scared her the most; they were leaden weights. Overcast, dismal, cloudy like they were heading for a storm. _Has he never known a lovely day?_

She felt a surge of pity then. Not for the man standing in front of her, per se, but for a long-lost young boy who hadn't grown to kill Arya's only friend in a new city (along with many other innocents and guilty), who didn't scare others gladly and revel in violence. There must have been a boy before all of that. 

But it was indeed the Hound who stood in front of her in that moment, not anybody else, and he noticed her reverie. With rough hands coming up from her sore wrists to grip her shoulders, he shook her hard. She felt her teeth and bones rattle like dice in his palm until she threw her hands up and hung to his worn breastplate. 

"What do you want, Little Bird? You shouldn't be wandering the castle alone after a man has worked a sweat. You shouldn't be creeping up on men, or they might _creep_ something up on you." She wasn't stupid. She knew his attempts to paint her as innocently promiscuous or prone to walking straight into danger were aimed at frightening her enough so she'd stay in her rooms, but it only irked her. 

"I'm not _creeping._ I said - I wanted to thank you for your kindness," his look of perplexed wonder made her continue quietly and bashful, "you were chivalrous in wrapping me in your cloak, and I realised that you are likely to require it back-"

True anger shone in his face, but it weirdly did not seem directed at her. Towards her, he just seemed disgusted. 

"You must be truly _depraved_ to find a dog throwing you a _strip of fabric_ over your bare teats as _chivalrous._ It was nothing! I just grew bored of seeing _Ser_ Mandon Moore with his hands down his breeches," his crued laughter echoed but his eyes remained the same. 

Sansa's face turned to a wall of sickening shock. Bunching her eybrows, she felt the sudden feeling that she just needed to _breath_. With courage from somewhere, she squared her soulders and shrugged his heavy hands off of her, pushing mightily at his breastplate. 

He relented out of choice rather than her wilful force, a dark look on his face, turning to follow her in his scrutiny. 

She grabbed furiously at words - any words that might hurt his overgrown masculinity, "I'll have you know that I am not - nor will I ever be - any common whore. I wouldn't even treat a whore the way you speak to a young lady of noble birth. It seems not to matter to you at all. But it should. You will speak to me like a true knight would speak to a noble lady, and you will... you will keep your place!" She chastised him like a dog, blushed-faced and bottom lip quivering slightly. 

He stood there, utterly dumbfounded. Had she learned nothing? He could kill her with one hand. Rape her and leave her bloody, if he wanted to, like one of her _true knights_ would. But he wouldn't and she knew it. It baffled him that for all the things he _could_ do, the Little Bird decided to get hotheadedly offended by his _profanity,_ his _crassness._ Fury boiled in him, seeping out towards every corner of his being. He had a ignited sensation in his groin, notifying him of a growing erection. 

"And where are all your _true knights_ now, Little Bird?" 

She looked at him for a long moment, jaw sent and shoulders square. She looked modestly regal - like an empress or some sort of myth. Like the Maiden. The Hound realised uneasily that her flushed cheekbones were not brought on by any fear of him, but rather from anger. The lady tilted her chin up a fraction, baring her soft throat more and levelled her gaze at the man in front of her.

Her voice did not break when she whispered, "in the North."

He was a fucker for saying it. He couldn't truthfully say why he did, but Sandor Clegane was just itching to teach this walking hybrid of subtle strength and titillating fragility a hard lesson. She needed to be taught the need to be weary, not to trust him with information regarding her loyalty - who else was she saying these things to? The Little Bird needed to be positively terrified of men like The Hound and The Mountain and Blount and Trant. Of Joffree and Tywin and all those who looked to take everything from her. She was too fucking innocent in her value.

"That's little use to you. You're trapped like a hare in your Southern cage, Little Bird. No one can help you." 

He gained a new plane of self-hatred in his mind, just for him to oddle over and fidget with for the rest of his days. 

Sansa Stark did not reply, clearly bored of the argument. 

But what Sansa really wanted to say - to scream into his marled face - was that _she is the North, you Southern idiot._

***

The Hound was left to stand there. Watching her walk away, stupefied but hiding it expertly. Hard, but hiding it under his layer of steel just fine. 

_Might be the Little Bird is in turth and heart, a wolf,_ he half-smiled at himself, _stubborn little thing._

Her face when speaking of her homeland was what stuck with him through Joffree's whining and whingeing. That shy pride was so different to the shit she chirped at court. ' _Yes, My Grace, my traitor brother will surely die by your hand. No, Your Grace, the North do not have a living chance in the face of your wrath.'_ But her face in that moment told him who she really had her bets on. 

Gods, she was playing a complicated game. The Little Bird didn't even know the severity of her words in this city; their danger. She was perched on the knifepoint of survival and sure death. 

_But she won't survive long after being married and bedded by the fucking King._ The child was sick in the head. Every whore he had encountered thus far had been dead by the time he finished or dragged out screaming. _The twisted little bastard can't even get hard without the presence of a crossbow._

The dog pictured his Little Bird hollowed-eyed and bloody on Joffree's bed, two arrows spurting out of her gentle throat and it sent a wave of nausea through him. He felt sick to his stomach with the thought of her lifeless body. 

If it got to that, he'd kill her and then he'd kill himself. 

_Fucking cowardly dog!_ He chastised himself, _if you let it get that bad, you should be dead in a ditch already, or lifeless at the back of a whorehouse like Gregor._

Yet, he was reminded of the times Joffree had had her beaten, cleverly aimed hits that could be disguised under clothes. The sheer enthusiasm on Trant's fucking rapist face when he lunges for her! And the Hound was no better because he stood next to the throne and watched... And then smarted malicious comments her way anytime he could, just to terrify her even more. _Why did I have to tell her that Moore was shamelessly fucking his hand at the sight of her?_ Was it some sick perversion? Was he just uninvitingly posessive of another man's plaything, jealous? It was true that he wished her the ugliest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, if only so it would keep other men away from her and keep her safe. He wished her maidenhead and innocence away and maybe even a bastard in her belly if it would get the Lannisters and _every man in the fucking realm_ away from her. Hells, if she were plain, she would likely not be betrothed to her _beloved._ But she never could be anything but striking. 

_Not even burns like mine could make her hideous,_ he reasoned angrily. It wasn't safe to look like she did, or be kind to people who want to do her harm. 

_Pathetic fucking dog, you're just as bad as the rest of them, sniffing at her tail. Worse even, you're deluded._

When he finally arrived at his room in the black of night, reeking of Harbour Gold and other substances most notably found in the various brothels of Flea Bottom, he lit a candle. Stripping himself of his armour and then his clothes underneath, his eyes drew to an ivory-grey material. It was folded as neat as new parchment and placed on a rickety wooden chair in the corner of the room. On picking it up, he found that the cloth had been cleaned as much as it could be, but nevertheless retained it's constant ruined hue. It was only when Sandor Clegane went to tug it over his naked frame, for reasons he really couldn't say, that he noticed the miniscule stitiching on the inside. It was a font of purer thread than the fabric itself, and wrote: PLEASE DO NOT TELL OF TREASON. 


	2. Something else which was not Blood

The girl was terrified. Everything glowed bright green, a twisted rendition of springtime bloom, as she hurried silently towards her rooms. Stannis was here. 

For months she had been waiting for his arrival, waiting and hoping that Joffree would _be gone_. She wasn't stupid; she knew that she would still be a prisoner, but Stannis might treat her better, and at least he already had a wife. 

She reached her own door now and slipped in quickly, barring the door silently. The space was as black as night if not for a faint green illumination from the wide-set windows.

 _I just need some air, but there is none._ She went over to the window, a creeping feeling of being watched settled over her skin and she sighed. _There is more fresh air in the North than there will ever be here. I just want to go home._

Suddenly, she heard movement and a croak of "Little Bird". Before the lady had time to scream or attempt to run, she had been grabbed by her arms and thrown onto the bed. 

Sansa was pinned underneath him, with one of his large hands over and in her mouth and the other holding her arms above her head in a firm grip. He was mailed, bloody and stinking, her whole being pressing her further into the mattress.

"Scream from that pretty mouth and I'll kill you," he rasped as he removed his cold, metal-clad hand from her lips and moved it lower so it rested heavily on her neck. 

As soon as her mouth was free of this invasion, she spluttered the only thing she thought to say, but he did not seem to be listening, "why are you here?"

The Hound was looking at her mouth as she spoke, her throat and clavicle as she swallowed her fear down. _He is going to rape me bloody and leave me for dead. Or worse. He knows I'm a traitor to the Crown._

"I knew you'd come, Little Bird." 

He reeked of death - blood, wine, sweat and vomit layed firm on his skin. He truly looked like the Hound in this moment, the stuff of nightmares - scars floodlighted by the greenfire. 

_He hates fire,_ she was reminded, _that's why he is here, it is the last place they would ever find him._

"Ser, I- You're hurting me, please!" He didn't seem to hear her words and was now staring out into the night as if transfixed. 

"Who is winning?" she ventured awkwardly. 

The man answered her this time, but his face was still turned to the window.

"I only know who has lost. Me." He let out a cruel bark of laughter then, self-hatred steaming. 

"What have you lost?" 

The joke suddenly wasn't funny any longer, "Everything. All." 

There was a long silence in the room then. _How long are we going to stay like this?_

"Should - should you not be out there?" she searched his face for any sign that this was all a sick order from Joffree, a plan to expose her treason. She found none, but the Hound would never show it even so. 

He looked at her then, gripping the lady tighter under her large paws, as if he felt the need to test her authenticity. 

"Fuck that. I'm going."

He was going? But then she would have to endure them alone... No cloaks handed to her without a word, no cleverly timed hankerchiefs or gruff truths thrown her way in the most needed times. No silent companionship as he walked her to the throneroom (Gods, silence was so hard to come by in this city). She didn't know why the sudden dread stuck in her throat but it did. 

He surveyed her, taking every fragment of the woman in. Painting her in his mind so she'd last there forever or until he got his head bashed in enough times for him to forget. 

"But where are you going?" panicking, she layed hold on the grooves of his arm plates, slipping her fingers inbetween the joints so she'd have a better grip. _He won't hurt me, he won't hurt me, he won't hurt me. But if he goes I'll be hurt._

The Hound was silent for a moment before whispering almost gently, "might be North." 

A pang hit Sansa in the chest from inside her like a set of cymbals. 

He continued like he was stepping on loose ground in a land he'd never tredded before, "I could take you with me, keep you safe. No one would hurt you or I'd kill them." 

This was as much as a dedication of his devotion to the Little Bird as he could ever give - this promise of protection. 

Seeing the Little Bird hesitate set an oddly embarrassed fire alight in his chest. _The Lady wants to be kidnapped? Is she blind? Doesn't she fucking see that I'm the only chance of escape for her?_

His face darkened; he was all furrowed brows and rough hands. 

"I will have that song, Little Bird. Whether you will it or no." His breathing was heavy and it scared Sansa in its ferociousness. She wasn't sure when he had got his shortblade out of its sheath, but it pressed up against her neck almost softly, like a kiss. 

_He wants a song? Oh, I cannot possibly sing like this. I can't even breathe in this moment._

But Sandor Clegane needed one last thing, only one thing, he wanted her song - the song she hadn't given to anyone. He was not prepared when she opened her mouth.

    

    

    _"Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_
    _Save our sons from war, we pray._
    _Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_
    _Let them know a better day._

    

    

    _Gentle Mother, strength of women,_
    _Help our daughters through this fray._
    _Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_
    _Teach us all a kinder way._

    

    

    _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_
    _Save our sons from war, we pray._
    _Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_
    _Let them know a better day."_

It was no Florian and Jonquil, no Bear and the Maiden Fair. In truth, she had forgotten those words the moment he had pulled her under him. But when she had finished singing, she knew he didn't mind. She felt the odd desire to touch him, so she raised her small hands to his marled cheek, perplexed to find a sticky substance that was blood but also something else that was not blood. 

As quiet as the Stranger Himself, the Hound removed his blade from the throat and raised himself up from the bed. All that was heared was the screaming and butchery of the outside. 

Grabbing his helm, Clegane headed for the door, avoiding the girl's face and stare as she lay bedruggled atop the featherbed. 

God's, he was a monster, a true dog. 

Her gentle voice was what stilled him.

"You're going North? If you would be so kind, I would appreciate your taking me with you ," Sansa almost mouthed the words. He didn't even turn around to face her as he put on his ghastly dog helm and started rifling through her things. 

She only had a second to think, _Gods, is he robbing me?_ before the man instructed her, "Pack lightly and quickly. Dress in your most practical dress and cover those scarlet locks."

As she got up, feeling bruised from his weight, and disappeared behind her changing screen, he started filling a soft coverlet he'd ripped from her bed with anything he could find which had a chance of selling. Jewels, hair clips, a small purse. He opened some drawers and grabbed a handful of her silk undergarments, a few slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. Creams and powders also went into the make-shift sack, in the hopes that he could sell them to a whorehouse or a farmer trying to get back in his wive's good-books. The inside of a half-hidden chest in the corner of the room revealed a small collection of worn fairytale books of various sizes and colours, and letters (which he shameless opened). He found that the girl had in fact been writing her family. Her _kingly_ brother, her missing sister and lady mother. _Hells,_ he thought, _she had even wrote to her dead father like he was still alive._ She obviously knew that these letters were never to be sent, but they were lethal to have. What if one of the queen's spies had found them? They were testimonies for where her true love lies. He quickly folded the letters back up and threw them with the rest of the belongings he had collected. He also grabbed a doll. It was seemingly unused - like new, really, but girls looked after their things, didn't they?

It was odd. The Little Bird was much too old for dollies, years older. She was old enough to bare whelps herself, in fact, but she clearly held on tight enough to this unseeming toy for it to have some importance. Without thought, he added the doll to the coverlet as well, carefully placing it amongst the letters and jewels. 

***

Sansa stepped from behind the screen half convinced that she had dreamt this whole fiasco up, if not for the muted knocks and restless footsteps trying hard to be light. 

_He's too drunk for this,_ she worried. _The fumes have got to his head and we'll not get past the city walls. He'll fall off his horse and we'll both be dead by morning._

Even so, she couldn't let the chance of reaching northern soil slip away. How she longed for snow and wolves and the warmth her mother's strong arms. _I should be more like her._

With a woolen dress and a cloak of grey around her small frame, Sansa Stark turned to her rescuer.

"Have you changed your mind, Ser?"

He looked up at her from rummaging through her nightclothes drawer (to her internal devastation) and ignored her "Ser". 

"Never. Too stubborn." He grunted before eyeing her suspiciously, like he waited for the betrayal, "Have you, girl?" 

She gave him a soft smile - not a smile revealing any happiness but one of truth and reassurance, "Never. Too home-sick." 

With one hand holding a sack of some sort, the Hound grabbed her middle and slung her over his broad shoulder. Sansa couldn't help but let out an unladylike "oomph" at the action, which seemed to amuse his scarred features. When she had settled uncomfortably into this new posture, he was already marching determinedly through the Redkeep. 

"You know, I could walk myself, Se-" she muttered. 

"Shut that mouth of yours and keep quiet, girl. Might be I'll take you back and leave you in your beloved cage."

She was silenced.

After a few minutes and bobbing up and down on his shoulder along with the weight of his steps, the warm air hit her face and she knew she was outside. 

She heard him, "You couldn't keep up if you tried, and if we're caught we can't have you seem willing."

He seemed to think of these things like it was natural. _He's a survivor; just like Arya. He was used to the chaos of war. Used to the way these people think._

The Hound placed her down on her wobbling feet when they reached the empty stables and warned, "Do not touch the beast or he'll bite."

The _beast_ he was talking of was a tall, black destrier, as dark as onyx and as frightening as steel. He was angry like his master, but didn't seem startled by the greenfire like the few remaining horses in the stalls obviously were. The warhorse just seemed restless or eager to get out. She waited nervously in the corner of the stables whilst the Hound saddled the thing.

"Easy, Stranger. We're going," he packed the saddlebag with the things he brought with him, as well as a pack already set behind the saddle. 

"Here, Little Bird," she came to him apprehensively, keeping as far away from the big thing as possible. She was nervous about the horse Clegane would pick for her as she'd only learned how to ride side-saddle, so something docile would be required. She hoped for a nice mare, gentle and sweet and not ferocious at all, but there was little choice in what horses were left. She edged closer until she was at the man's side, him standing between her and the onyx destrier. 

"Yes, Ser? Oh!" she gasped audibly as the large man's lifted her from the floor, wrapping her middle with his paws and sat her atop the even larger horse. She was not placed side-saddle, to her utter dismay. He made short work of climbing up to sit behind her and she blushed profusely. 

"Ser, I cannot possibly ride _him._ He's too large - I can only ride side-saddle on a _nice_ horse!" 

He spoke from above her head, laughing menacingly, "You'll get used to it. If you can't ride then you'll learn." 

"I-I was of the mind that I would have my _own_ filly."

"Well your mind was sorely wrong, _my lady."_ His ominous voice sounded almost playful for a moment before he continued, "It's not safe for you to have a horse of your own if you can't ride, and we'll do much riding. And you need to be unwilling, remember, Little Bird?"

She was _unwilling_ to be on a horse with Sandor Clegane pressed up behind her for true. He was right, of course, but she tried one more weak attempt.

"But - Ser - this is most improper!"

She felt his hot breath move the hood of her cloak as he gave her a snort. 

"What have I said about your fucking _Sers_?" 

They rode in silence. 

***

The whole city was in too much panic and the greenfire had been spreading too long for there to be any genuinely operable defenses in place.

The Hound sliced straight through three men before they could even take a second look at the Little Bird and realise who it was.

She clung to his arm through it all, her shaking hands rattling the plates of his forearm. 

_If I had this response every time I killed I would constantly be killing, would forever be covered balls to brains with blood._ The feeling of being needed - of being depended upon - was what spurred him on through the Lannister gates. 

Surprisingly, the Little Bird didn't cry at all. He expected her to, for sure. But she just clung to him through Stranger's gallop, and he held his arm tight around her. They needed to get as far away from the shithole city as humanly possibly, and her falling off the horse wouldn't help. 

As the two rode and rode further and further, occasionaly the Little Bird's locks would escape her hood. He'd catch them as gently as he could, tucking them back into their hiding place. She was as docile a lamb. _Might be the sheer fright of being alone with a dog. Had she ever been alone with a man before now?_ He wondered. 

The further they hastened, the less greenlight there was, and after hours of Sansa being rubbed raw by the leather saddle beneath her, the outside was pitch black around them. 

"Little Bird?" he croaked through the air, "We might as well stop here for the night." 

He slowed Stranger to a halt and jumped of his back. She rubbed her eyes like she'd just woken up, but he knew she hadn't been sleeping because she felt tense as the string of a lute as they rode. Glancing around as best she could in the dark, she questioned "where, pray?"

"There's a clearing over there. We won't risk a fire," He rasped, grabbing her and pulling her small frame down with him. Clearly, the large man didn't realise his brute strength, nor her inexperience of riding, in this moment because her legs gave way and she went softly tumbling. 

He put his arms around her and pressed the girl to his body, "Little Bird's not used to riding." She nodded. 

"Stretch your legs or be sorry for it later."

_Gods, won't he just let go of me? Why does he have to be so harsh all of the time?_ she thought. _Well, not all of the time,_ she corrected herself whilst stumbling and stretching over to the clearing he'd pointed out. _He touched my hair like he was worried I'd feel it._

The Hound was rustling in the pack and caring for Stranger whilst she perched on the edge of a fallen tree. _Well, I am certainly no use to him like this._ Getting up and teetering over to him shyly, Sansa asked if the man required any help. 

He spread his hand out to bat her away without even turning to her, "Keep away from Stranger! Stablehands can't even stomach going near him so I don't reckon you would make any changes to his countenace. Are you hungry, girl?"

She hesitated, "I woul appreciate something to eat... but it's surely too dark to hunt? We may be better waiting until morning-"

Cut off by a harsh growl, he barked, " _We?_ Pray, tell me, will the _little lady_ be dragging us back a nice bit of venison? You just sit your pretty arse down." 

The oldest Stark turned red with embarassment and avoided his stare. _He's so crude._

"I- I'm not _completely_ clueless or useless, Ser," she mumbled almost inaudibly, as if to convince herself as she returned to her seat. But dogs have superb hearing. 

The man was quiet whilst preparing a makeshift bed out of the coverlet snagged from her room and a bedscroll from Stranger's pack. He just disliked feeling as if he couldn't do everything for the Little Bird. Did she think him incompetent? To let a highborn lady go hunting whilst he sat and tended to his horse seemed embarassingly ludicrous to him. _Still, she should learn,_ he reasoned, _what if I suddenly kick it?_

Sansa concluded that he did not hear her or chose not to until he spoke into the strange black, "No, you're not useless. And that's exactly why you need to stay safe. Piss and then get in bed. Tomorrow we'll hunt." 

His crass attitude was grating on her. Lady Sansa Stark was simply not _used to it._ But, all the same, she did as he bid her, hiding behind a tree for privacy and then heading back to camp. 

As Sansa layed down, she glanced at him, sat by a tree not six feet away from her, still in his armour and eyes wide open. 

She coughed subtly to catch his attention, "Clegane?" 

He grunted as way of response. 

She battled on against his rudeness, "Aren't you going to sleep?" And then she realised, sitting up, "Oh! How ill-mannered of me. You need help with your armour."

_I'm so stupid, he obviously had to leave his squire back there._ She went to get up and play squire, but he shook his head, "If I needed fucking help, girl, I'd ask. _I'm keeping watch._ Wouldn't want anyone raping and dragging you away in the night, would you?"

His cruel words set her heart racing at registering the fact that she was alone with a man who was not her brothers or Theon or her father for the first time in her life. _He could do those things!_ She internally panicked before chastising herself for her childishness, _If he were going to do those horrible things, he would have done them when we were in my room, not after he has deserted the crown and took away with their prized possession._

"I thank you immensely for the service. I only worry for your sleep. You'll be so tired on the morrow if you do not rest. Promise you'll wake me up in the night and we'll swap positions?"

The Hound's scars looked truly gruesome when he laughed. _Probably why he doesn't do it too often, they look so painful._

"Oh, I thank you for the concern over _my chastity,_ wouldn't want anyone raping _The Hound_ in the dead of night, of course." 

It took a lot for her to level her stare from the bed on the ground, whilst she was crimson from brow to decolletage. 

"You underestimate me, My Lord,"

His eyes left hers and he suddenly stood up, not facing her, "I don't underestimate. I just do not require the assistance of a _fair maiden_ to treat me like a _fair maiden._ Now Sleep." 

And off he went into the woods. She was still frightfully staring out into the dark when he returned, the bottom half of his armour plates in his hands. Sansa soon fell into a deep sleep, pursued by pure fatigue. 


	3. To Speak and Say are Two Different Things

Sansa was not woken once in the night. Sandor Clegane did not sleep once. 

When he felt tired he'd walk around the clearing and drink from the water skin that had been found in Stranger's pack. 

_How could I ever forget to have her drink? How did I forget to bring wine?_

He had been drunk as a sack when he arrived at the Little Bird's room the night before, but by the later hours of his watch he'd completely sobered. _Unfortunately._

The thrill of it all had long since worn off and instead turned to a lead weight in the man's stomach. 

He watched her attentively as she slept - red hair fanning the makeshift bedding and grey cloak draped loosely over her shoulders. 

_Pretty bird, you look much better now you can stretch your wings a bit. I long to see you in the snow; properly flying then._

He woke her up - regrettably - a while after he'd initially planned to get going. He told himself that she needed to rest ( _she'll be rubbed raw from the saddle under that skirting),_ but in truth, the girl looked so peacefully demure that he couldn't make himself give the image up. She was so titillating, and she didn't even know it! It made Sandor feeling salacious, like his dirty and vulgar thoughts were corrupting her somehow. _They probably are you sick dog._

_I could do a lot worse than think dirty, for fuck's sake. I could take her right now and she couldn't really do much about it. But I'm not Gregor._

He longed her, but he particularly longed for her to be _willing._ And as she never would be, he would never have her. _Well, in a world where the God's were true, I would have her willing and alive. As I can't have one, I might as well focus on her staying alive._

He slowly took his heavy armour off, piece by piece, and left the scattered odds of metal near Stranger's saddle, the soft sounds of clinking steel filling the silence. When he was down to breeches and his mail shirt he walked over to her sleeping form without noise.

Nudging the girl with his boot and rasping "Little Bird" when she gently stirred, the Hound waited through Sansa's soft, sleepy murmers until she opened her Tully blue eyes and looked up at him. 

In truth, it took the Stark girl more than a second to realise that she was not running through the halls of Winterfell with her Direwolf, Lady, beside her, nor was she stuck in her repetitive Lannister hell. She was actually laying on a forest floor somewhere in the seven kingdoms, staring up at the _Hound._

"Good morning...Clegane," she smiled at him tentatively, sitting up slowly whilst supporting her weight with her palms behind her. Realisation dawned on her as she remembered the day prior, "You really should have woken me. How will you ride without any sleep? And you've been at battle!"

She gasped at the thought of him fighting through blood and dirt and greenfire. 

"Ser, I insist you rest. Oh! Have you any injuries?" 

_This is what ladies are expected to do and I've stupidly forgot! One night in the forest and look what it's done to me._

The Little Bird was standing up now, and stepping past the tall man as if she planned for them to swap places.

Sandor Clegane simply threw the girl a skin of water and growled, "I've fought with a lot less than a night's sleep, _my lady._ I don't need to _rest_ and I'm not fucking _hurt,_ so stop worrying your pretty head. What I need is to _eat._ Come."

She drank a few small gulps from the skin, careful to leave the man plenty, and went to relieve herself behind a tree far enough that she was sure he could not hear. She felt dirty pulling up the hem of her skirts and holding them round her waist. 

Stepping back into their small, leaf-coated camp with her hair plaited and cloak tied properly around her shoulders, she could not see the Hound. 

_He's probably just gone to make water,_ she reassured herself. With a strangeness in her stomach similar to the night before - when he'd left her for just a moment - she busied herself with folding the bedroll and blanket. 

_It is because he is my protection - my only form of safety,_ she thought. _And I'm just not as used to being out on my own like he clearly is._

Sansa stood for an unsure second with her folded makeshift bed in her hands, before nervously stepping closer to the black destrier.

 _I have been brought up around our own Winterfell dogs, have slept next to my very own direwolf with no bother; I am travelling with a ferocious Hound and it's a_ horse _that scares me so. Come on, Sansa, be brave and be useful or be left behind._

She edged closer and closer until she was able to lift her shaking hand and touch the beast's thick neck, tentatively stroking the shine of his hide as Stranger brayed angrily. He snorted and kicked uneasily at first, clearly uncomfortable with being touched by someone other than his master - so much so that Sansa had to step back when he resisted. But she did not give up. In the end, either out of sheer boredom of her caresses or the decision that he didn't much mind the affection, Sansa snuggled closer and cooed at the beast before placing her bed things back in the saddle bag. 

***

The dog faintly wondered if he was breathing or grunting _too_ loudly as he finished. _It never bothered you who saw your cock in your hands or anywhere else before._ The image of the Little Bird walking upon him to find that he'd pleasured himself in such close proximity to her half sickened him with something much like shame, and half spurred him to his release. 

Tucking himself back into his breeches, lacing up and taking time to catch his uneven breath, he headed back to the girl. 

What Sandor Clegane did not expect to see was the girl petting his half-wild horse like a child, her dainty arms slung around the beast's thick neck. Red against black - obsidian crested with rubies. The camp was cleared and Stranger looked mildly uncomfortable but overall subdued. 

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" 

On spotting him, her face lit up happily with pride, causing a spark of new lust and chagrin through his spine. 

"Look, Ser, I seem to have mastered the fearsome Hound's blasphemous warhorse," she laughed joyfully, the music spreading through the clearing as light as a feather. 

He wanted to chastise her for going within six feet of Stranger without his presence, but her lightness forced him to hold his tongue. 

" _Blasphemous?_ Gods, you are a walking blaspheme. That reminds me, have you got on your knees yet today?"

He smirked at the look of confusion and bashfulness cross her delicate face. 

"I assure you, I am no blaspheme and no hypocrite. If you're questioning my - my _propriety_ \- I am... intact. I will pray and thank the Gods for bringing you to me in my time of need, if it please you," Sansa felt the sudden and strange need to change the subject, "Why did you not notify me of your leaving?" 

Snorting, the Hound did not even attempt to dampen his resentment, "Fuck, _Lady_ Sansa Stark wants to hold the dog's cock as he pisses, does she? Aye, it will not please me for you to thank _Gods_ for your escape from that shithole, _that was me._ " The way his saying her name sounded so much softer in juxtaposition to everything else. This was not lost on him, and it made it uncomfortable to be so obviously _weak_ in front of her. 

She gasped at his profanity, feeling irritated embarassment simmer, "I already have thanked you. To my understanding, you have little care for my gratitude. You clearly do not think much of the Gods, but I'll pray for you." 

Smiling brightly and stubbornly, Sansa turned her back on the man and went to kneel by a nearby tree. He could hear her muttering her devotions but was not quite able to pick up the subject of her _godly whims._

_Probably dreaming of me dying in my sleep, all to magically be replaced by that Loras Tyrell cunt or some greenboy knight from her fairytales. All whilst I'm dreaming of the Little Bird doing things to me that the brothels only do to handsome men._

The Hound busied himself with collecting nearby branches and set about creating a makeshift bow. Sharpening thin branches with his shortblade and he went. 

He'd been trained to do this on his first siege; his commander told him that it is essential to use what was around him as he would soon run out of his own provisions. 

The contents of the saddle bag were spread around his knees as he sat on the clearing floor in order to find something string-like to be used to nock an arrow. He soon found what was needed from the waistband of some smallclothes of the Little Bird's; made of silk with stitches of bluebells leafed around the thigh, he almost regretted ruining them. 

She turned around at a ripping noise, obviously too curious to continue her prayers or done with them anyway. 

"What are you doing?" She asked, stepping lightly over to him. 

The Hound had taught fighting before and therefore he had taught survival - he explained what he was doing in the same way, reasoning that the Little Bird may need to do the same one day. But she didn't seem to be listening. 

The girl turned as red as Mars and avoided his queer look expertly, peeping at anything but the several pairs of lace and silk underclothes. 

On noticing her focus - or lack thereof - and clear discomfort, the dog smirked at her, eyes glittering, "Are highborn _ladies_ not used to having their undergarments shrewn over the forest floor? I thought you might make use of them... Except these," He held up the ruined azul pair, to Sansa's pure horror. The Hound's paws looked incongruous against the small circumference of the material. 

"I hope you don't mind, we're going to catch breakfast with them," he couldn't help bur provoke her; the simple blush of her cheeks had the same effect on him as another woman might if she were naked as her nameday. 

_Sansa Stark shy and sheepish has me a like a greenboy with his first. Gods, does she go this colour when she's wanton?_

This got him wondering who the Little Bird had ever been _wanton_ for, what fucking knight had she ever really desired? He remembered the times he'd watch her watching Loras Tyrell, pretending the rage was just part of his normal sustenance. _Every man in the seven kingdoms knows that the pretty Tyrell boy prefers men in his bed._ Yet, even so, the thought of Sansa thinking towards some man like that made him wish Gregor had killed Loras at that joust, all that time ago. _I know I'll never have her, but I never want anyone else to come close to the chance._

Sansa did not think she could have been any more crimson if she were fighting for breath. The tips of her ears were red as radishes and her cheeks reminded the man of ripe apples set against snow. 

_Why must must my skin betray my every emotion?_

She was unsettled by the thought of Clegane rifling through her private drawers, and felt as if she could never look at him again. 

"Even the end of your little nose goes, aye, Little Bird?" She could not see his scarred side from her angle, but his unmarred side was delightedly enlivened. 

He suddenly and proficiently piled all of her underclothes inbetween his two massive hands and stuffed them messily in the saddle bag with a frown. 

His moods change as quick as autumn turns. This man with his horrifying history and horrible disfigurement, his large hands and vexed countenance. Sansa wondered whether he had ever even mildly liked somebody, let alone loved. _Have those big hands ever traced the lips of anyone he hadn't payed coin for?_ At the uncensored thought, Sansa felt completely unprincipled. _That is not a lady's business to think about those things, and it's certainly not mine. He is my companion - my protector, it is not right._

All the while, the Hound was bewildered by the graceful creature standing beside him. _My poor attempts at jovial humour do not hit the mark. In truth, they would be off base even in a tavern or whorehouse. Fucking hells, it's hard to not offend._

He tried again, trying to tread more carefully, "Little Bird? I picked some other things up from your room. Something we could get some good coin for. Others might be better being kept safe." He nodded to the pile next to him. 

On being alerted to the objects, the daughter of Winterfell brought herself down to the pile, not bothering with tidying her skirts or watching for dirt, and started to cautiously touch her things. He watched the careful actions from a lidded gaze, feeling like he might be close to understanding something about the girl, but also feeling so far away from any revelation. He saw how she handled the trinkets like she was scared they were going to break inbetween her dainty hands. 

When she came across the doll, she began to cry noiselessly. 

"You don't have to be silent, Little Bird - they're not here."

The Little Bird didn't reply, but instead gave his nearest leg a tender pat. 

Feeling awkward, Sandor ventured, "aren't you old for toys, Sansa?"

She startled like she had forgot his presence, and stroked the doll's soft hair. He never really used her name, just the pet name he'd attached on their early encounters. She knew he wasn't being cruel. 

"Yes, I suppose I am. In truth, I had been too old for it even when my Lord Father gifted it to me. I think it was his way of telling me that I was still too young for what King's Landing offered. He never wanted to become Hand to the King, was even uncomfortable with my betrothal to Joffree. If he'd had his way, I'd have stayed in the North" The girl was properly crying now, not trying to hide the tears wetting her chin, "but I was spoilt and petulent and I believed that nothing would be better for me than what Joffree could promise me. I told him that I despised him when he treated me like a baby. And now he's dead." 

Her azul eyes were treasures long fallen to the sea. He shifted her closer - she let him - and stroked her fired hair, half believing that she wouldn't allow it and half believing that her locks might burn him. He was intruding on a private moment. She was gazing at him gratefully. 

"Little Bird," he muttered, having nothing else of any value to say, but somehow that seemed to be the right thing. 

He picked the doll from her lap, forcing it to miniscule size within the frame of his being. Looking at it in what could only have been described as adoringly, she realised that she was fond of the way it looked against him. Two things that do not go together at all. One thing looking like a sword when it shouldn't, another looking disarrangedly gentle.

She picked up the slightly crumbled envelopes. 

"...Did you read these?"

The dog hated liars above all else, so he did not lie. "I didn't have time. But I know who they're addressed to. Things like that are dangerous to have, Little Bird." 

She nodded in understanding, placing the parchments to her heart. She did not have to read them as their contents were already known. 

Sandor Clegane had never been one to care enough to pry into others' business, but nevertheless, in that moment he wanted to know what was going on in her head - what she'd needed to say that she thought she couldn't say to anyone. What she held to her heart.

"Come on, Little Bird, let us go hunting." 

Standing, he offered his hand to pull her up with him. But instead, in his wide palm she placed the letters. 

"You'll look after them for me."


	4. Sandor Clegane and his Hound

After reprimanding her to quiet her _chirping_ , to stop stepping directly on crunching leaves or dead twigs, and to _keep that fucking hood up,_ Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark crouched together amongst bushes. The makeshift bow was held between them by the girl in a desperate attempt to give it back to the man, in which he refused.

"Ser, I will not kill that beautiful creature - I refuse!" her eyebrows her scrunched as she eyed the wild hare moseying across from them.

The Hound was exasperated, "you people won't get your _dainty_ little hands dirty but you'd sure as hells eat it if I gave it to you," he gravelled out in a harsh yet strangely whispered voice which sounded misplaced on him. The last thing they needed was for the animal to run.

" _My people?_ What stems your hatred for those highborn, I beg? I remind you that you are not exactly a... a _pauper_ yourself, _Ser._ My highborn family welcomed and fed you in your visit to Winterfell, so I do not expect abhorrence from you."

_That spoilt brat, she doesn't even know of her own privelage._

"Gods, I apologise to the _beautiful maiden_ for a dog's _forgetfulness._ Of course your father feeding my _minor house_ \- a _second_ son, no less! I'm sure your lord father's charitable work will never be forgotten by the Hound," he scoffed in his sarcasm, before continuing darkly, "Might I remind you, _my lady,_ that I fought the same war as your father when I was half his age - aye, might have fucked the same whore that your bastard brother came from."

"Oh, stop it! Just please leave me alone!"

Trying to push away from him, the hare cause sight of his perpetrators and startled. Sandor was forced to snatch the bow, pull back the arrow and sufficently shoot the thing straight in its red eye. 

On the walk back the girl foraged a few late summer berries and some wild mushrooms whilst he held the hare, slung over his shoulder. 

He'd attempted to ask her how she came to know which plants would not kill them stone dead, but she ignored his silent apology. 

_Fucking stubborn Little Bird. She was so quiet at King's Landing - at least her arguing is a sign of life._ He thought about what he said about the rich and powerful. _They still die the same, and poor Eddard Stark worse than most. Too good for his own fucking good, and so is the Little Bird. She's a highborn lass whose suffered beating and humiation, the thought of maring whelps for any man who offers the most._

After cooking the hare on a measly fire, Sansa did not refuse the meat. He smiled privately at that. _Was that my being forgiven?_

Soon they were back on Stranger and riding in silence. 

***

Sansa was slowly getting used to riding all day and spending nights directly under the stars, but the did not think she would ever acclimate to her companion's black moods. 

They had been dipping in and out, finding small streams and thin rivers they or the horse needed water, but never staying there long. The Hound had told her that where there was water there was life, and they certainly did not want to be seen by life. 

Yet but everytime the stopped for a few minutes, she could not help but wish for her handmaidens and their bathing expertise. When the girl had ventured to ask him whether she could bathe, he'd gruffly rasped, "hanging meat outside a butchershop."

She was appalled, "I am no meat, Ser." She felt comfortable enough to be stern with him sometimes - when he was in a lighter mood and as long as she was careful not to push him too far. 

"Yes, you are. I am, ugly piece, mind you, but meat all the same," he laughed at his own sick joke. 

"Gods, is that really how you view the world?" Sansa was repulsed at the man's lack of moral ground.

Sandor Clegane looked at her from his standing, "can't all be maidens. Now, come on, girl, got to be going."

She was still kneeling by the stream and her eyes fixed to the flowing water as she quietly asked, "is that why you killed Arya's friend? It did not bother you because he was a piece of meat?" 

The way this was said was not condescending nor judgemental in any way, but scarred face darkened. 

"Pretty Bird thinks she's any better, aye? If I was any less of a ruthless dog you would be birthing a lowborn's bastard by now," he growled and she knew he meant the bread riots. The Hound came towards her with slow, menacing steps, "Would you like that? No, I didn't think your _pious_ type would. But let me tell you, people wouldn't even fucking blink before whoring _Princess_ Sansa Stark out if it meant they'd earn. You should have learned that by now."

She blubbered at his rant, eanrest not to be withing ten feet of the Hound's rage, "I have loyalty, even among the South - not everybody is as ruthless as the legendary Sandor Clegane, as you describe it. The Kingsgaurd would, the Lannisters - of course. They'd all sell me for the highest price, I know. I'm not a silly little girl anymore. But I believe that there must be good people out there somewhere."

The man looked at her pointedly, "Are you fucking stupid? _Everyone_ would use you as they will it if they had half the chance.Remember that and it will keep you safe."

They were standing face-to-face in front of eachother now, so she rose to her feet (if only because she could stand him looking down at her in this moment).

"But Mycah was just a boy... He would not have hurt anyone. He was not just a piece of meat, he was a person. And _you_ killed him." 

The Hound's appearance was as blank as plain parchment when he was confused; it betrayed no sign of being unable to concieve what was said, but rather simple a lack of recognition. It was unsettling. 

"What are you chirping about, Little Bird?" grabbing her wrist and dragging her towards Stranger, "The wolf bitch's playmate? I was ordered to kill the butcher's boy so I-"

But Sansa Stark had swivelled in his hold of her and stung her palm crisply across the burned side of Sandor Clegane's face. The sound rung. 

It was not any pain that stung him, the Hound rarely felt more on that part of his face than hairless whispers of _something_ being there. It was her face of pure rage. 

Grabbing and holding the girl against him, ignoring her struggles, he fisted her hair and pulled. A gasp escaping her open mouth, the Little Bird's chin was forced up. He growled, "You will not lay a hand on me again, girl. I'll press you against the earth and show you what a _real_ whitecloak would do. You'll be delivered to your wolf pack beaten half to death and maidenhead ripped from you. Do you understand? Do not forget who you are travelling with." 

She shook in his arms but in a low voice he had not heard from her before said, "You are no whitecloak. I am aware of whom I'm being escorted by, but you forget yourself. You _do not_ speak in such a manner towards a Daughter of Winterfell, a Princess of the North. You should keep your place in the presence of those superior to you! A second son of a minor house speaking about Princess Ayra Stark as if she were a common whore! I can take it if it means your protection, but I will not allow my family to come under _your_ criticism."

She screamed as he grabbed her middle and slung her over his wide shoulder, bent over and flailing. 

"Let me down! You improper brute!" Her fear was physical. _He's going to do what he threatened. I'm going to be ruined._

Face beetroot and chest heaving, Sansa was slung over the back of Stranger, tied by her hands and feet so she could not move. 

"If you want to act unwilling I'll treat you as such. I did not kill that fucking boy you are so _fond_ of in memory, but I wish I did. Might be it would shut you up." He continued in breathy pants, like he were running miles rather than tying her hands above her head, "Fucking _common whore! Princess_ Ayra Stark couldn't be a common whore if she tried, in fear of biting the man's pride off!" 

Sansa gasped and struggled, but to no avail. The big man climbed a top the horse and spurned Stranger on. 

***

Sansa Stark was convinced that her only chances of getting out of this unbecoming position was to fling herself off the cursed horse, when suddenly heard a few course expletives and Stranger was pulled to a halt by his reigns.

Fear of uneasiness dragged its clever way up the girl's spine at the sound of heavy boots. 

_Gods, everything about him is big and frightening._

Strong hands gathered her in his arms, but he didn't put her down straight away.

The Hound looked down at the speciemen in his arms with furrowed eyebrows, frustration worming in his belly, and a guilty feeling at the front of his mind.

_Tell me if you'll run away of try and kill me. Are you still scared of a frightened dog?_

_Of course she's afraid of you, you deluded fucking dog! As she should be, too. Men like you are the stuff of maiden's nightmares._

This had never bothered him before, but in this moment he felt sick. 

"We'll stop now, Little Bird. You must be rubbed raw by the saddle," he softly added, "we've still got yesterday's meat, so no hunting."

The Little Bird's eyes were downcast. She looked so demure, a halo of ruffled red locks and pale neck. She was silent as he put her down. 

It was still light but Sandor settled the horse, got the bedding out of the saddle bag and placed it down for her. 

"Get in and rest. Little Bird? If your cold I'll light a fire." 

Despondant, she walked shakily to the blanket space and sat down, patting her shirts in place around her. Nothing in answer. 

_What do I have to fucking do?_

Gritting his teeth, he threw the water skin down next to her and got to work on a fire, collecting dead wood for kindling. 

She couldn't help but notice him flinch back as the flames took from her watching place. Staring fixedly at the flames whilst he gazed at her, Sansa couldn't help an unladylike wave of anger flush her. The Hound was positively infuriating. 

He stood in a instant movement. 

"I'll be back. I can smell water and Starnger needs to get his fill." 

He stalked into the woods,unceremoniously leaving her alone.

_Gods, he is leaving a lady all alone in the middle of seemingly no where! I could not even say where I am._

Both he and the horse were gone for what seemed to be a very long time and Sansa was scared. She had the scuttling sense that something was _there._

_Don't be silly, Sansa. You are alone - it is nothing more than you being used to not being alone these weeks._

Somebody stepped forward from the shadows then. 


	5. A No-Name Grave

The girl let out a small ' _oh'_ before really seeing what was before her. They had come from the shadow of a large tree, tattered clothing blending in with the background. This man was dificult to look at; all jutting bones and limbs.

"M'lady, you are here alone?" His voice was cracked and bare as if he wasn't used to exercising his voicebox. Sansa felt a twinge of pity in her heart. 

_Poor soul._

"I - well, I'm not but -" She tried to sound more common, to drop her upper class accent for a more lowborn drool. 

It suddenly occured to her that that hood of her cloak was not covering her auburn tresses. 

_He called me 'm'lady', does he know who I am? I can't look any more willing, I'm sitting here voluntarily waiting for my kidnapper's return!_

"May I be forward and say, m'lady... It won't be safe for you here. Find a cave completely uninhabited and hide for the night," The pauper peered at her curiously for a moment, which to Sansa felt like an eternity, "it is not safe for a maiden alone."

She noticed him edging closer. Still perched on the makeshift bed, she glanced around her, searching for any sign of her companion's return. None. 

_Where are you, Hound?_ Panic took hold of her as she realised that Sandor Clegane might have left her.

 _He wouldn't dare!_ She attempted to reassure her dancing mind, _I could be ransomed for too much for him to turn away from, surely? ...But I have been an awful lot of trouble... No. No, he wouldn't hurt me, even if he does find me insufferable (and even if he can be insufferable sometimes himself)._

Sansa Stark decided that the most practical plan of action would be to be polite. this ragged man was skinny enough that she would probably be able to push him off and run if need be. The worse thing she could do now was anger the man in any way. 

"Oh, I trust that it'll be alright... I apologise, I have no food or wine to offer you, but I know a few songs?"

The stranger's eyes noticably lit up at that. 

"I don't much care for your sustenance, but I'll admit it's been a long while since I heard a beautiful voice."

In many ways this person reminded Sansa of old Ser Dontos - with his odds-and-ends clothing and desperate countenance. So, she started to sing of Florian and Jonquil. 

" _Six maids in a pool-"_

A flash came from the woods, and before the girl could recognise that _something_ in the atmosphere had changed, Sandor Clegane stood behind the old man with his sword wedged between the pauper's jaw and adam's apple. 

She let out a strangled cry, but never took her eyes off of the body as the Hound slipped his now blood-soaked sword away as it slumped to the floor. Dead. 

Stranely, Sansa noted that the man's body seemed less malnourished when lifeless and void. 

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" The Hound roared. 

She was knocked onto her back, her head hitting the ground painfully. Her legs could not move as he held them firm underneath his own as she was trapped. 

_I don;t think I would have been able to move anyway._

" _Answer me,"_ He shook her until she thought her teeth would fall out. 

"I-I was scared. Please!" She was crying now, at the reality of the stuation, the messiness of it all. 

"When your school, you run, you thick-skulled - you don't _sing!_ " The dog's voice turned up at the last word, as if it were a foreign language from Braavos or somewhere, like he was unfamiliar to the sound of the letters together. 

"I was distracting him until I could run. I wasn't sure whether you would come back to me. Please, believe me! I was just a song to a pauper," She struggled against him but to no avail. 

"Just a _song. Just a song!_ Everything is just a song to you. If you opened your thighs to him, would that be _just a song_ as well!?" 

Chest heaving and ears pink, the girl was suddenlygiven the distance she thought she wanted as Clegane pulled himself away, as if burned. 

"No, it would not be a song." 

He stalked away from her, seemingly disgusted. 

She panicked at the thought of him leaving, "I-I will be intact when you return me to my family, I swear it. I'm noble, I know my worth! You do not have to worry about your payment decreasing-" 

Minutes passed where the Hound just stood there staring down at her blankly. _Is he understanding me?_ In the end, the girl decided that she would rather face his wrath than his hateful gaze. 

"You didn't have to kill him," she whispered in a small voice, "as soon as he saw you, he would have not been a threat."

"Idiot bird. And would he not have been a threat when preaching in every tavern that he got to gaze upon _Princess_ Sansa Stark, the fairest maid in all the Seven Kingdoms?"

He was right to be overly cautious, she knew, but it did not help her sympathy for the starving dead man in front of them. 

She watched as he picked the body up, grunting as he carried it out of the clearing. 

"You're too soft-hearted," he claimed, coming back empty handed. 

"I can't help it. It's the way I am."

"Eat," The Hound intructed her as she was thrown her share of yesterday's meat. Sansa just stared at his mailed hands. 

"Clegane, but aren't you going to bury him?" 

He was so frightening in his judgements. She could never accomadate towards the ferocious and obsessively hateful look that was forever lurking under his eyelids. 

"And leave you alone again? Never made a mistake twice." 

He sat next to her, closer than usual besides their journeys atop Stranger. Sansa stared at his scarred mouth as he stuffed it with berries he'd picked. 

After a rather uncomfortable silence, Sandor looked up grimly, still chewing, "I'll fucking do it after, alright Little Bird? Now eat, for fuck's sake."

She smiled to herself. _I know he looks after me, in his own rough way. He doesn't like me truly unhappy, per se, just careful._

The girl tapped his thick, plated arm lightly, "I thank you, Ser. And - well," She couldn't help but start giggling, "you shouldn't eat those, you'll be sick for days."

Smiling up at him as he spat over the forest floor, swearing profusely and cursing every God (new and old, to her utter devastation), Sansa could not help but feel a twinge of pride. 

_He's not exactly burdened by me, is he? I did save him from poison berries!_

After a long time of quiet laughter and simultaneous eating (Sandor even had to hide a smirk), Sansa quietly told him how she knew how to identify certain plants. 

"My maester at Winterfell taught me. We'd all go out, whether to the hot springs or to pick flowers for mother, and he'd teach me how to recognise the native plants, how to use them and so forth. It was an interest my mother thought was sweet - I could match flowers to their allocated month- and my father respected. He said it was a great skill to have in the North."

The Hound let her talk and listened. She was quiet and had a soft voice, some words she said differently to how they were said in the South. He itched to make her say those words again, to correct her like they were still in the capital, but didn't. He found that she had a whole life, way before her cursed move to King's Landing, way before King Robert's visit to Winterfell, and he wanted to know about every single day of her life from birth to present. Nonetheless, he did not ask any questions, just let her talk. 

***

After, Sandor insisted that the girl stay with him whilst he buried that body as she'd asked. Digging until it was dark, he had taken off his armour early on. _Too fucking heavy to dig graves with._

Sansa had helped him with removing the metal plates until he ws left with dark breeches and a sweat-stained tunic. 

Not having anything else to do but watch the man dig, Sansa saw his tense back through his shirt, his shoulder blades as wide as the Warrior's. _Gods, it's not just the armour._ She looked upon him in wonder but also with jealousy. _What it would be like to be feared. To be able fight and win against anyone._

His dark hair fell to his collar and dusted his forearms. It was thicker on the better side of his face, his beard stopped at his strong jaw. Heavy eyebrows sat atop grey, hateful eyes. With a roman nose and arms powerful, the big man infront of her seemed like he could move mountains. His chest was an armour of skin and muscle and pride. 

At this moment, Sansa could not imagine the burn-free, knight-loving boy she knew he must have once been. No, he was all man now. 

"What are you gaping at, girl?" He had hauled the dead man into the self-made hole and turned on her, "See something you like?" 

Self-deprecation was written all over him; sweat ran down his brow and curled the ends of his hair. He looked wild. 

Sansa blushed at being caught looking, and chose to star at her feet, "You're cruel. I was just thinking, how you could almost pass for a northman." 

Her soft smile brought an unwelcome pang to the dog's chest and he had to bark with laughter in order to deflect it. 

"One of your rabid Winterfell dogs, Little Bird?"

It played across his mind that the Little Bird could simply be missing her North, longing for her family. _Maybe she sees them in her protector, silly bird. Wanting things so bad she makes it real life._ Still, it made him oddly prideful that she thought of him as such. His eyes softened. 

She bristled, "Our dogs were not _rabid._ And no, not a dog. A man." She was shy, he knew, for her eyes were downcast and cheeks red. 

"And your looking more like a north woman than I've ever seen you, Little Bird, with that hair down your back," She hadn't even pretended to attempt any Sourthern style since they'd left and he marvelled at her untamed tresses when they weren't hidden away.

But she clearly took this as his criticism and brought her locks up into her hands and began to tuck them away, "I'm sorry - I do try my best." 

The moment grew awkward for even him, so Sandor turned his back on the bird again and began filling dirt around the body. 

"My mother was a Slate."

He could not see, of course, the girl's eyes light up, but he detected a smile in her voice, "of course she was."

It just made sense. 

***

When Sandor Clegane was finished with the ghastly grave, the pair stood over it a moment, for reasons unknown to the man really. The dog stretching his arms over head, cracking his bones noisily, and the Little Bird staring at the newly moved soil. 

"I wish my father could have had this."

It disgusted the Hound that being granted a no-name grave in the middle of the woods was undoubtedly a better fate that what really happened. Lord Eddard Stark deserved a send-off fit for the North ( _Hells, in the North)._ Instead, what he got was his head on a Southern spike. This was not something that would ever really _bother_ Sandor, but it did. 

_Same dead way no matter where your carcass is, all in one piece or not,_ he reminded himself uncomfortably. 

He tentatively placed his large hand on her shoulder, sighing when the young woman didn't tense up or push away. 

"Little Bird," It was all he could say. They headed back to camp. 


	6. Blood

Sandor reeked. 

He was used to sweating for weeks on end, sometimes, with no bath and his armour to carry the stench. He'd been in wars where his and the men's stenches became part of the surroundings, for the Gods' sakes. But the sight of the girl screwing up her little nose when he came near, of her keeping as much distance from him (even on horseback!) began to irk him. 

The Hound had never felt _embarassed_ in his life - his ghasty face was enough for him to drop all pretences of being a civilised member of society - but in the weeks spent together he began to feel self-conscious. Defensively so, but self-conscious all the same. 

_I could just bathe in the river with Stranger,_ he contemplated. But in truth, he knew the Little Bird would appreciate a proper bath. And he needed wine badly. 

_The reason I'm thinking like this is because there's no liquor in my system._

So he decided to find an inn. 

"Little Bird?" She shifted and mumbled sleepily from infront of him on Stranger in answer. It amused him when she dropped her noblewoman ways, made him picture her as one of her wildlings - few items of clothing and even fewer social expectations to stop her doing whatever his perverted mind made up. 

"We'll be staying at an inn just pass Darry, if I've got it right. Which I have," He heard her stifle a shy laugh at this, but he had meant it just to reassure her, "Stay quiet, act lowborn and keep that fucking hood _up."_

He was looking forward to not being sober yet her light expression as she turned her face to show him she'd understood made him glad. _I did that._

*** 

They would reach the Cross-Roads Inn before midday because Sandor knew that few would be congrugating there at this time. He could tell the Little Bird was nervous about the risk of being seen. If she wasn't checking and re-checking whether her hair was covered, she was fidgeting with her skirts. 

"What are you so worried about, girl? I thought you liked the idea of some hot water," He said, annoyed. He was behind her, both atop Stranger. 

She visibly bristled at the man's tone, "Oh, I do hope I don't seem ungrateful in any way - I am! Grateful, I mean."

He had just spotted the inn a little way off, dismal and clearly rundown. 

"The what is it then? You're worried some fucker will recognise you."

Sansa'd shoulders dropped a fraction. He was unable to see her under the hood but he saw her hands were fisted into her skirts. 

"Yes... That is it. I'm frightened somebody will look upon us and know what we are. You have the right of it, Clegane." 

The Hound silently congratulated himself for knowing what the Little Bird was feeling. _Women aren't hard to figure all of the time, it seems. Or maybe being around the Lady constantly has given me good practice._

As the days went on, he was learning that noble women were particularly easy to fathom when they were either scared or cold. 

He turned her face up towards him with a thumb on her chin. She moved her head willingly so that she was glancing at him over her shoulder. Her eyes would not meet his though, which slightly angered him before he reminded himself to ignore it. _She's scared but it's not of me this time._

"At least your fears are realistic. You've improved. You'll be alright, so long as you keep that hood up. Don't talk to anyone, not a soul, do you hear? And if anyone watches too closely you are my wife." 

Sansa Stark hesitated, unsure of whether she should risk saying what she thought, 

"Wife? But a wedded couple would look strange ordering two separate rooms..."

He didn't bother to hide his anger now as he sneered, "That will do then, as we'll not have two rooms. Do you want to sleep in the same room as a dog safely or be raped screaming while I slumber in another?"

Panicking, Sansa held on to anything that might have a chance of changing her companion's mind, "But - What about a woman!?"

"A woman? Whores aren't accustomed to noticing anyone who isn't up to the hilt inside them, or offering any cash. They'll not bother you if you don't bother them," Sansa Stark confused him more than anything ever had in his life, "We'll have one room, like you said. You needn't worry your pretty little head, I'll not be rutting some cunt right next to you. And yours will stay intact. Fucking hells." 

What did she think of him? _Only what you've given her means to believe, you disgusting dog. Anyway, you should be glad that she has no trust for anyone, especially not you._

The girl was evidently repulsed by his insinuations, "No! Gods, you are absolutely deranged, Ser. I meant for _me..._ A... friend! I haven't the company of another female for so long!"

 _Fuck, Little Bird, that makes two of us!_ Her innocence both infuriated him and made him want to teach her what she didn't know how. He couldn't help but picture her doing the things he'd seen whores do together in the hopes of compelling men to spend double the coin. What did women do when they spent the days together? 

They were coming to a stop outside of the inn now and Sandor wanted nothing more than her to stop talking in her obviously pristine highborn voice.

"You don't require any other company but me. You don't need to stress over our safety in travel, that's my job. If you wanted a bath that desperately, I'd kill every fucker in this shithole and wait for you to be done." 

She was silenced. 

***

Stranger was safely snoozing in the stables behind the inn. Like always, the stableboy refused to touch the beast so Sandor had to do it himself. He preferred it that way anyhow. 

On entering the place, he'd swiftly ordered a room and two baths - his wife's now and his later - throwing the coins down beside the balding innkeep. 

The downstairs was dark with shadows, all stained wood and the stench of beer. The only colour came from the fire breathing aggressively in the hearth. 

As Sansa took the stairs her small steps followed large ones. She found that the establishment was not much different in hue upstairs either. 

She was so anxious at the idea of sharing a room with her companion - getting her moonblood that morning, Sansa had no possible way of dealing with it properly. She had been bleeding through her clothing all day.

The Hound had helped her so much, had gifted her with escape and ensured her safe travel. The last thing the girl wanted was to anger him for asking for more. Also, the thought of mentioning her moonblood to a man embarassed her to her very core, went against every teaching her Septon gave her. 

The young woman was not stupid (despite what the Hound may think), she knew that his loyalty to her only extended to how much she was worth at the end of the road. If the trouble she caused began to outweigh her potential worth, he would be gone and she would be alone. Sometimes, when the days were long and the nights cold, she liked to pretend that he was her friend, a childhood acquintance who had heard of her predicament and couldn't hesitate but travel from his northern castle to save her. But his gruff words and spitefulness woke her everytime to face reality.

_I'm lucky my dress is dark and the blood isn't obvious, otherwise I'd have no choice but to say something._

Sansa was instantly knocked out of her reverie by Sandor's rough tugging of her into their assigned room.

"Here, Little Bird."

It was bare. Just a single hay-filled mattress atop an old bedframe, a wooden chair in one corner and a changing screen in the other (behind which stood a basin, a jug of water and a chamber pot). 

"The innkeep's wife will be up with your bath, Little Bird, so remember what I said," He stomped over to the chair and started fiddling with his arm plates. 

The Princess of the North knew that men liked nothing more than to be thanked obediently for favours they think they are doing for ladies, and Sansa was highly rehearsed in such.

"I thank you, Clegane. How noble to notice I'd like a bath and nice rest on a bed. I suppose you are parched from our journeys. You don't have to wait, I'll take the bath and not say a word more than my gratitude..." 

She should have known he would never buy it. Looking at her suspiciously under furrowed brows and a deep frown. 

"Come here and take my armour off. _Show_ you thanks."

Sansa's hands shook as she fumbled with his ties, catching the metal of his protective layer and placing them one by one on the wooden chair. He had to perch on the edge of the bed for her to reach some and others she had to get on her knees in order to have a better handle of, but he never stopped staring at her like he was waiting for her to mess up. _He knows I'm hiding something. Remember? He always said a dog can smell a lie._

She tried to navigate his thoughts onto something other that her assumed secrecy, "Why don't you wear your helm anymore? You do have it on the back of your horse."

Finished with the armour and hearing a knock at the door, the man swiftly crossed the small room. 

Just before opening the door, he glanced back at her, "It makes you uneasy."

Sansa didn't have time to think of an answer as a stout woman stepped in with a tin bathtub under one arm and a pail of water in her hands. 

"Hello, missus, fellow, how'd you do? You ordered a bath." They pair both nodded their heads in greeting. 

The girl felt rude and awkward watching the woman come back and forth with multiple pails of water. Her anxiety at the idea of having to ask this woman for sanitary cloths in front of Sandor Clegane was at a high, but she knew she could never wash and put her bloody undergarments back on without anything to stop more mess. It would only be time before she'd bleed through to Stranger's saddle and onto the man's steel plates.

"There you are lovie. I'll leave some lavender soap and a sponge for ya. Anything else I can do?" The woman stood at the doorway to leave. 

The Hound spoke up, "No, that's it." 

_Have courage! Even wolves bleed, and dogs! Don't think just do._

"Wait!" Sandor was burning holes into her, but she ignored his eyes and persisted in a small voice, "If you can, I would be grateful for any clean cloths...They would be useful."

Sandor's face hid confusion well, but not annoyance or rage or impatience. He was mostly angry at himself: he should have guessed that her mood of late was more than just worry. 

"Oh, I gotcha. I'll bring 'em up in just a moment-"

"And if you've got a modest dress of her size right about, would get you good coin," He interrupted. 

The innkeeper's wife dismissed, the dog turned on the bird, "Your bleeding."

Sansa couldn't bare it. It was the nightmares her and Jeyne Poole would cringe about as young girls. _I do hope Jeyne is alive._ She ducked behind the screen for any avoidance of answering him. 

He followed her. 

"I need some privacy to change, please," She stumbled over words plucked awkwardly from the air. 

"You can wait a moment, the hot water won't go anywhere too soon. Why didn't you just say? Are you leaking through?"

Her face was turned away from him and and all of her was scarlet. If he wasn't concerned over her potential pain, he'd find the ruby tops of her ears enough to actively memorise for future reference. 

"Gods, this is so inappropriate. Please, won't you leave me one shred of dignity?" It occurred to her that he might be angry at her, she knew that some men were disgusted with a woman's menstrual blood. It often went past the reluctance to lay with a woman when she was bleeding, but some men wouldn't share table with or even look upon a woman on her moonblood. 

"Ser - I apologise for not notifying you of my...state. I should have, I know that now. Your disgusted at having to -"

Her tears hit her cheeks and rolled towards her chin. 

_She's crying because she thinks I'm upset with her? Of all the things I've given her to cry about, she chooses this!_ He could have laughed if it wouldn't make the bird even more uneasy. Instead he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her towards the bed. This seemingly made her sob even more. _Fuck, I'm trying to be gentle._

She looked so utterly breakable when she cried. He tried to find better words that what he was able to. 

"Little Bird, why are you whimpering all over the place? I'm not going to turn you out. I'm not... disgusted by you," she had paused her sniffling to gaze up at him and he sat besides her. He straightened, suddenly defensive, "It's alright, girl. Cheer up. You can clean yourself up in that bath and I'll get your clothes clean. Bloods blood, no matter whether it's come from your cunt or a man's throat."

" _Gods_ ," was all that she muttered. 

"...Just tell me next time." 

Sansa was overcome with a wave of appreciation for this maddeningly crude but oddly assuring warrior, without whom she would surely be raped or dead by now. For the first time since the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, she felt the need to touch him. Hesitantly, she reached her small hand out and placed it on his atop where it was resting on his leg. She silently prayed he would not push her away, not wanting to be touched by her in her state, but he just sat stock still. She took that as something somewhat lower than encouragement but not a negative sign, so lifted his hand after giving it a small squeeze. She nudged her hood off and placed his hand against her smooth hair. He had always been gentle with her hair.

The large man complied, face masterfully blank, and ran his fingers once through her red locks. His hand hovered awkwardly between them, him clearly in thought, before he risked repeating the action once more. His eyes didn't leave her. 

_Fucking Hells - Just like fire. The only kind I'd like to be scarred by. How can something this sweet be so evilly compelling?_

They were interrupted by the woman's voice outside the door. Instantaneously, Clegane shot his hand back as if burned and stood up from the bed. Sansa sat worrying over her hood, her hand only lowering when he opened the door. 

"Right, I have one dress - I reckon it might be a little short for those long legs but closest as I could find. And I have your other needs, Miss." 

"I thank you a thousand times over," Sansa said, more comforted than she had been in weeks. 

In private again, the Hound reminded Sansa, "I'll be back in half of an hour. Lock the door after me and answer only when you hear my voice. Do you understand?"

"Of course," Smiling sweetly, he had to turn away. 

She was abruptly alone for the first time since her encounter with the starving man, save for her natural needs which she was permitted few feet for privacy. Sansa had nothing to do but excitedly removed her sticky, stained clothes. 

Finding her small clothes to be stained nearly completely scarlet and her inner thighs to be smeared with her moonblood, she stepped into the steaming tub. A loud sigh escaped her and she marvelled at the sensation for minutes before beginning to clean herself. 

Inbetween her legs, her arms and feet, everywhere before taking on her unattainable hair. By this time she was done, the water was a red-brown and she proudly smelled not of the outdoors but of lavender and lemons again. 

***

Sandor rifled through their things among Stranger until he found his old whitecloak. 

_No fucking need for it now. Hells, I didn't even require it then._ So he took it and ripped it up, dividing the pieces into rough rectangles around the size of what he thought the average cunt would be. 

_This should do her for when the other becomes bloody._

The Hound had never pretended to know anything about _women's things;_ he had never cared to. He'd never fucked a woman he didn't pay for and never in a way that they were forced to look at his face. All he knew that women could die the same ways as a man, really. And in his line of work, that was all that was worth remembering. 

But making the Little Bird makeshift cloths reminded him of a younger time. His sister had been older than both he and Gregor, old enough to bleed, for sure. How often she must have had to hide it at Cleagane Hall, just like the bird attempted. Gregor would have found it gruesome and punished her for it, or his sick child's mind would become fascinated. 

Sandor felt uncomfortably close to his brother in the fact that both women felt the need to hide something that was simply part of their being. 

_But she touched my hand, let me stroke her hair. She couldn't of been terrified of me in that moment, could she?_ He tried to reason her actions out like it was war tactics. _She thought I would be disgusted with her like craverns and greenboys are - those who have never seen any more blood than a pinprick! She could have thought to get on my right side, smart Little Bird. Thought to make me stay. But if she thought I was really disgusted she knew a man wouldn't touch a woman..._

Collecting his project and stuffing them into his breeches pocket, Sandor found a pair of her King's Landing undergarments from the saddlebag and put them in his pockets too. 

_She wanted to be reassured, to be comforted. She said before that I remind her of a northman, and I am her only companion and protector. She wanted to be comforted, that's it. She must be aching._

He packed their belongings away and headed back to their room. 

*** 

A sharp knock on the door made Sansa startle. 

"Little Bird? Open up," hearing his gruff voice through the door hurried her into her new dress. She didn't have any clean underthings to hold the fresh cloth to her, but quickly opened the door anyhow. 

"Fucking finally -"

"Please don't look at the used water! Clegane, I said don't look -" She was making a failing effort to block the tub, but he seemingly wasn't interested. 

"Alright, for fuck's sake, woman. Just put these on will you?" He unceremoniously shoved the smallclothes into her hand and realising what they were, she blushed profusely, "I don't know how good they'll soak up the blood or whether they'll fit your cunt right but here's some more cloths for when the others get red."

She darted behind the screen and started changing before she had to show him her face. Although, the girl couldn't help but be touched by the sentiment, however crude. 

"You know, I hate that word. I only ever heard Theon say it, but never half as much as you. It makes me feel unclean and unsightly. Well, I shouldn't moan at you, you've saved me twice now. Three times, sorry! More than that ten-fold, Clegane!" She laughed and continued her speech, "You saved me from Joffree almost constantly, you saved me from King's Landing, potentially from that pauper, and now you've saved me from utter embarassment! I could never thank you enough. I've decided that my not telling you was so silly. You wouldn't have turned me away -" 

The dog was behind the screen, sitting on the end on the small bed, exasperated, "Nevermind moonblood, I just wish you would have told me you chirped this much when newly washed, I would have never had let you have a bath."

His jest hit home as she giggled shyly, "I'm sorry, I just feel as if a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders!" 

Stepping from behind a screen in a deep green dress which came, as the innkeep's wife had hinted, just to the top of her ankles and no further, Sandor couldn't help but look at her augurn tresses bright against the forest hue. _I most definitely did request a modest change of clothes,_ he sneered to himself as he took in the curve of her breast evident over the hem of the fabric. 

But he did not want her to stop speaking, and was concerned that she'd return to her shell at his try at any comment about her appearance. This was the most content he'd seen her since before her father's passing. 

"Theon? A brother's friend?" He inquired and grabbed at her. 

She yelped, "Oh! Clegane, what -" 

He pulled her to lay on the bed, "You're aching, aye? You must be rubbed raw from the riding. I'll not hurt you, I said, didn't I?" 

She tried to tell him how this was improper, but relaxed a fraction. Laying on her back and he turned to her, reaching a large paw out to touch her stomach. He began to rub in slow circles. 

" _Gods,_ this isn't right-" She whispered but did not push away. Sandor took this as encouragement and urged her on to carry on with her incessant talking, if not to distract her. 

"He was - I mean, he was my brother Robb's friend, his bestest friend. But he was also my father's ward. Theon Greyjoy. He grew up with us. _Ah -"_

He suddenly startled and stilled in his ministrations, "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. It just - just what was needed," she smiled at him blissfully and he glanced down at his hand. It seemed incongruous against her own plane of dressed stomach, a giant paw only built to hurt. The naive Little Bird didn't seem to mind though, "How did you know what to do?"

Sandor ignored the spark of wild jealousy at this greenboy who was allowed close proximity to the girl, cursed her lord father for being so stupid, "Horses. This Theon seems to have overstepped, aye."

The Little Bird was clearly embarassed and closed her eyes. _Beautiful._ His breeches became tight as he flicked his eyes between her lashes and where his hand was kneading. 

"Well, it turns out that animals and humans are more alike than I'd realised before. Yes, he did overstep, I suppose. My father trusted him. Robb did. He was never my favourite - he'd overstepped in a few ways at Winterfell before... Stealing kisses and swearing within the ladies' range. But my friend Jeyne Poole was utterly in love with him regardless. I would never in a million years have guessed that he'd betray us, do those horrible things Bran and Rickon, though, even if my family's life depended on it -" 

The Greyjoy boy who'd killed the young Starks. _Idiot dog, shouldn't have made her talk about it!_

"Tell me about your friend, Little Bird." 

She spoke of Jeyne until she was too tired and too relaxed to utter a word more, and fell into the most comfortable sleep she'd had since Winterfell. 


	7. Bath

Sansa awoke to the sound of splashing water and low growls. Flicking her eyes open and rolling over to face the room, she was greeted with a great bathing Hound. 

He was sitting in the steaming water, head lolled back and eyes closed. With a seemingly half empty flagon of _something_ in one hand, his great expanse of chest was rising and falling slowly. Dark hair coated his chest and trailed down, down, down. He was covered in nicks and scars from various knocks.

 _Heavens take me! What am I supposed to do?_ She smacked her hands over her face, half to sheild herself from _seeing_ him, half to not let him see her face if he did decide to look up. 

He was grumbling lowly but not in words. 

After a minute the girl started to fret. 

_What if he's fallen asleep? The water will go cold and he'll get ill. He might even drown and then I'll have no one!_

She decided that the only obvious plan of action was to call his name and notify him about how unacceptable this situation was. _Was he raised in a barn? He's drunk in a tub full of water and making the most animal sounds!_

"Clegane? ...Clegane?" No luck, he seemed to be snoring now, loudly. One glace out of their squat window told her that it was no more than late afternoon. Her stomach growled in mixed alarm and hunger. 

_I'll just tap him to wake him up, then run back and hide my face under the covers. Yes, that's the only way, for sure!_

Sansa apprehensively made her way over to the bath and tentatively tapped him on the shoulder. Eyes finding anything to latch onto but the parts of him she clearly shouldn't be seeing, in particulary _that_ part which she knew was there past the onyx thatches leading the way, but couldn't quite comprehend. _I'm touching a naked man. My poor Lord father would turn in his grave. Septon Mordane, oh Gods!_

Sandor Clegane did not look peaceful as he slumbered. His scars were so evident without his dark hair to cover them and his thick eyebrows twiched in frustrated every so often. But there was undoubtedly less scowl. His conscious gaurds were down and he looked, not peaceful, but restful. Sansa suddenly didn't feel like waking him in this moment. 

She hadn't seen him have a proper rest since leaving the city. It was true that he had kips inbetween moving on from one camp to another - but only when he was sure they were as safe as they could be, and his rest-stops were never wholly restorative. He was weary, but not weary of his burden, she hoped. She, on the other hand, had the luxury of sleeping and eating and moaning about it all internally without much effort on her part. 

She pondered on this and had just concluded that his sleeping was his choice, when a large paw came shooting out of the water and clutched her throat. The Hound stood up and dragged her with him, water droplets spraying over her dress and soaking the floor around them. Her feet were lifted from the floor.

He wobbled vigorously and held an air of unsteadiness which, in Sansa's mind, did not suit him at all. _Drunk. When was the last time I saw that?_

Her throat was held tightly and she scraped at his chest, anything to stop him from cutting off her windpipe. The man's eyes were foggy with drink and he didn't seem to see her at all. 

" _Please."_ At her soft,breathy whisper, Sandor Clegane's foggy eyes focused and hands loosened, yet still he held her.

"Shouldn't fucking wake a drunk man, didn't your father ever teach you that girl? Get away from me." 

Pushing her away harshly, she suddenly stumbled backwards and fell. On her way, she hit the wooden bedpost and cried out. 

All that was heard were the beads of water running down the man's back from the ends of his hair, travelling down pass his behind and dropping gently back into the tub. Sansa's eyes were closed and forehead knotted. 

"I'm sorry. I thought you might drown or get a cold," she whispered into the air between them. Sansa had not feared the Hound for a long time, not in any real, solid sense.

He slowly stepped out of the bath and crouched down infront of her. Picking her up gently with one arm underneath her shoulderblades and the other at the underside of her knees, the Hound placed her on his lap and cradled her like a child for what seemed like seconds or hours. 

He was sombre and she could feel the self-hatred oozing from his poors, from the place where he'd nuzzled his face into her neck and held it there. 

"It's alright. I'm alright, I swear it. I'm just clumsy, is all." She brought her hand up and pet him like she would Lady, stroking from crown to the small of his back. 

"You're not, just too fragile for a dog. I don't want you to come near me like that. When I'm like that. Could of killed you," he muttered and lessened his touches of her to fine movements. He smelled of wine and water and something his own. 

Sansa fisted the back of his jet hair and pulled not sharply. She knew he moved his head up to face her not out of force but was instead obliging her. 

"I'm no paperdoll and your no real dog, do you hear? I'm sick of pretending otherwise."

After she reassured him that she was perfectly alright, Sansa gently untangled herself from him, to which Sandor frowned. 

"Ser, you are _bare_." He looked down at himself and barked in laughter. If anything sobered him, that did. 

***

Once he had sufficient clothing back on (the breeaches and shirt he had been wearing for weeks now) and splashed cold water over his face, he ordered the passing innkeep to clear the bath and have his wife wash the Little Bird's old clothes. 

"Little Bird, are you hungry?"

She pleasantly glanced up from her place on the bed, an excited gleam in her eye, "I am famished, Ser. I could eat Stranger." 

"No Sers. I would say Stranger would eat you before you had a chance, Little Bird." 

He had their meals brought to the room. Hot meat stew with hard bread for dipping. Sansa had never seen a meal so anticipated. 

The first few minutes of eating were spent in silence. Sansa guessed that her companion wasn't much bothered at his nakedness before. He never tried to cover himself quickly and didn't apologise. Still, he seemed to be internally vexed, which the girl couldn't quite fathom as _she w_ as the maiden in this situation. 

"Are you sore? Bruised?" He broke her train of thought to ask. 

"No."

"Did I frighten you?"

"Yes. No. You simply made me jump, is all... If you don't want people to be scared, don't be frightening." 

"Are you fucking blind? I can't stomach liars, you should know that. The only difference between the times when you'd cringe at my ugly face and today is that now you have reason to pretend I'm one of those pretty knights from your childish stories. You've learnt to protect yourself well, I'll give you that," He had finished eating quickly and was now wiping his palms against his thighs. 

"I'm not being untruthful! I was never afraid of your scars - It was the hate in your eyes that shook me most of all," She continued, "I have little need for those stories now. You're not a pretty knight - you're no Ser Boros or Blount, or Ser Jaime. You never were and I'm glad of it... You are my friend now, Clegane."

Irritation shone as he grimaced as if in pain, "And what a fucking fine friend you've got for yourself, Little Bird. I'll break you in half, I can't do anything else. You must of been desperate to leave your cage." 

A cold laugh. She forgot her meal to look up at him.

"Clegane, if you would forgive me my disrespect, I would say that you are a hypocrite. You'd murder innocent Mycah in cold blood - just a boy - and seemingly feel not an ounce of pity. But you chide yourself so for a silly accident." 

"For fuck's sake. Do the Starks ever leave anything alone? Look, I never layed a finger on the boy. The cunt Joffree wanted him killed, so King Robert ordered me to go hunting for the day. To come back covered in blood and content, so as far as the sick little fucker knew, you _beloved_ Mycah was dead. That's not to say I wouldn't have done it if ordered to, girl."

Sansa felt a tad foolish and didn't exactly know what to say to that. In the end, she fell on an exchanging of secrets.

"Well, that is all I wanted to know. Well done, Clegane," her soft expression dimmed as she wasn't sure how the man would react, "I wasn't _desperate_ to leave. I'm not certain you'd remember a man, Ser Dontos? But he was planning my escape from the city." 

Fury. "Ser _Dontos?_ That old fucking fool? He couldn't fucking plan his own journey past the tavern let alone smuggle a princess out of a city! You idiot fucking bird. He couldn't have been behind that alone, you should have realised! What did you give him?" 

The Hound was raggedly furious at himself, that he never worked out that all the time he'd watched the Little Bird and followed her, someone else was watching as well. It made him uncomfortable - made him face the fact head-on that Sansa Stark was not _his_ Little Bird. That other men had eyes and ears and cocks and knew a gem when they saw it. The girl was in danger every day of her life, would always be. He blamed his own stupidity and weakness.

 _Now is a time for truth, Sansa._ _He should know that he is not near the worst of men - he isn't even on the same bar as the other men who had hurt her._

"After we'd saved him at Joffree's nameday, you remember? He'd send me covert notes, telling me to meet him in the Godswood, so I'd go. He'd always say that the day would come soon, would call himself Florian and me his Jonquil... He'd kiss me and I'd stand there waiting for that day to come as soon as possible," She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were repeating another's story, but only to hide her utter desolation at the very thought of repeating her story to anyone.

"I should hang that man up from his ankles and slit his throat," Clegane was muttering somewhat to himself now, "Should have got you out sooner."

Sansa squeezed his hand and withdrew it quickly.

"You were the only one that _did_ get me out, I owe you my whole life for that," She knew to steer his mind to a brighter road, somewhere that wouldn't remind him of that Gods-awful place or his general hatred, "The only thing you should have done was bath _without_ a lady present. I always thought my first time seeing a naked man would be in my marriage bed. Gods, if my septon were watching down on me now!" 

An unrefined smirk grew on the Hound's face, "Well I apologise, _my lady._ Pray, do all maidens pretend to be this innocent?" 

She gasped in horror, "What are you insinuating, Se _r?"_

Shaking with laughter, the Hound continued his play, "I'm just thinking aloud. You've spoke fondly of your northern hotpools... Don't tell me only women were permitted the enjoyment?"

Sansa didn't want to entertain the idea that she wasn't pure. The Gods knew she had been mercifully shielded growing up, except maybe from Theon's sloppy advances, but nothing more than a chaste kiss had ever happened. She'd ran to her brother Robb straight after, too. King's Landing was something different. 

Yet she knew that Sandor Clegane could never judge her - would never. He didn't mind her unkept hair, or her mucky dress or her bleeding.

"My brothers do not count! They were just boys back then." 

"You take these idiotic Gods' modesty more seriously than any of those up-jumped whores at court. They'd be preaching about chastity one week then be court in a scandal with some hedgeknight the next."

"They are not idiotic. I hope you know that I was completely sensible - I didn't disrespect your honour, I swear it. Would you like the rest?" She offered her plate out to him lightly. 

He shook his head at her, "No, you eat it and then you sleep."

That night, Sansa Stark slept on the bed, and the Hound sprawled out on the floor, a pillow she'd handed him under his head.


End file.
